


Chris/Brian Ficlets

by chris_edward (hwshipper)



Series: The Chris 'Verse [10]
Category: No Fandom
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-12
Updated: 2009-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-08 04:56:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwshipper/pseuds/chris_edward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian's whimsical nature seems well suited to ficlet exploration; all these are between 500 and 1000 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brian and the boat

**Author's Note:**

> Adapted from scenes by [](http://hickman1937.livejournal.com/profile)[**hickman1937**](http://hickman1937.livejournal.com/)
> 
> **Beta:** [](http://srsly-yes.livejournal.com/profile)[**srsly_yes**](http://srsly-yes.livejournal.com/) unfailingly supportive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian finds an old boat and tries to save it. Chris despairs quietly.

Chris woke up one morning to an empty bed and wondered what Brian was up to this time.

Last time Brian had vanished, he'd lost his wallet and Chris had had a forlorn emergency phone call in the middle of the night from a hotel in North Dakota. Chris still had no idea why Brian had even been in North Dakota, except he'd been looking for a book. Which he hadn't found.

Chris hoped Brian would turn up soon; he was about to go away himself for a couple of days to attend a restaurant industry conference, and wanted to say goodbye. He ambled through to the kitchen and put on coffee.

At first he thought the _sshhuu, sshhuu_ noise was the coffee maker, then he realized that it was coming from outside. He went out and there was Brian with a heavy rope over his shoulder, tugging a large dirty wooden boat along the beach. Pieces of old paintwork and large chips of wood flaked away with every pull.

When he saw Chris, Brian paused, grinned, shoved his glasses up his sweaty nose and said, "I can save it."

"Save it?" Chris asked blankly.

Brian looked fondly at the wreck and the trail of debris behind it, and said, "At least fifty years old, handmade and some idiot was letting it rot in his backyard. So much fishing history!"

"What's your plan?" Chris was cautious.

Brian scratched the back of his neck absently and shrugged a little. "Strip it, replace the rotted boards, I don't know. Make it seaworthy. Raul says he knows someone in town that can tell me how." Beat. "There are boat restoration classes down at the docks each month, you know. I could learn."

Chris glanced sideways at the old Adirondack reclining chair sitting out on the beach, Brian's last DIY project. Planks stuck out at all sorts of odd angles; the chair was possibly even more rickety now than it had been before.

He wondered if it was too early to throw a shot of Jack Daniels in with his cup of coffee.

***

A couple of nights later, Chris returned home, arriving late to find the house in darkness. He checked the bedroom, then looked out back. He could see a ragged bundle on the Adirondack chair out on the sand, flapping slightly in the wind. When he got close, he saw a glint of spectacles in the starlight; Brian, wrapped up in blankets.

Chris paused next to the chair. "Hey. What's up?"

"I couldn't fix her," Brian said sadly. "Rotted stem to stern. Raul borrowed a boat, we towed her out and sunk her. It seemed just."

Chris was pretty certain this broke all kinds of laws on pollution control, and wanted to know if anyone had seen them do this. He quashed the question in favor of being supportive and understanding to his possibly insane new boyfriend, and asked quietly, "So you're out here grieving the boat you couldn't save?"

Brian looked up through the blankets at him and laughed. "No you idiot, I'm waiting for you to get home and fuck me. It's been two days."

The wind was blowing cold for August. "Let's go inside," Chris began, but Brian flipped open the blanket, and Chris saw naked pale bare skin gleaming in the darkness, the outline of muscular arms and legs, beckoning.

"Climb in," Brian said with a wink.

It did not go well. Half an hour later, after they were done picking splinters out of each other (Chris's left shoulder and thigh, Brian's knee and butt), they retired indoors, and finished in their bed what they had started before the chair collapsed.

END


	2. Small Killer Trolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linus reflects on Chris and Brian. Brian tells Chris about his screenplay.

Linus had learned a long time ago that it was the spaces in between that made or broke a relationship. Chris and Edward had just fit, snug as a glove. They'd had the instinctive, immediate, long-term understanding that came from two halves making a whole.

By contrast, Chris and Brian were puzzle pieces that almost fit, but not quite. It was the spaces where they didn't fit that defined them as a couple. Linus believed faithfully that it was meant to be, that in different ways each had rescued the other from past baggage dragging them down. But it bothered him that they so often failed to understand each other.

He shook his head when they fought, like now. He stood at Chris's kitchen door, watching Chris and Brian down the other end of the beach in the twilight, fighting. They seemed to be in unconnected loud aggressive conversation, waving arms, pointing fingers, pushing at each other. Then Chris fell down onto the sand, and Brian joined him, scuffling.

"What's up with them?" Raul appeared behind, and rested his chin on Linus's shoulder.

"Heaven only knows," Linus sighed theatrically, and put a hand up to stroke Raul's smooth cheek. "I should just go out and knock their heads together."

He didn't, knowing it was wiser to stay out of the drama. Instead he went back inside, cut a large chunk from the oozing chocolate fudge cake on the kitchen counter (baked by Brian, naturally), and settled down in front of the TV.

Raul curled around him, periodically dipping a finger in fudge and sucking it off in a way Linus found most alluring.

***

Out on the beach, Brian was talking, enthusiastic and earnest, waving his arms. Chris was doubled over in laughter, one hand on his thigh and the other held up in a _Stop!_ gesture. They were both heedless of Linus and Raul at the house.

"And though they may _look_ like piles of leaves," Brian carried on. "They're actually small killer trolls--"

Hysteria took Chris's breath away; he staggered a little then collapsed on his ass on the sand, almost sick with laughing. Brian bent over him, lifting his hands to make a point, still talking about trolls, then dropped to his knees. He moved to sit behind Chris and scooted up, his chest resting against Chris's back, arms circling Chris's chest.

Chris wiped his eyes on the cuff of his sweatshirt, hiccuped, and tried to look solemn. "So--trolls--"

"They can give you a nasty bite," Brian spoke gravely. "A drift of them will reduce you to a pile of bones in two minutes."

Chris put a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh, but couldn't stop a small giggle. Eventually he gave up, threw his head back and roared, leaning back into Brian. Brian shook his head, then started to laugh too.

"Some fucking supportive boyfriend you are," Brian eventually got the breath to say.

"It's supposed to be a _drama?_" Chris was still grinning so broadly that his cheek muscles hurt. "It's hilarious!"

Brian, chin resting on Chris's shoulder, said with mock severity, "That's the first and last time I tell you about my screenplay."

The spaces between them defined them as a couple. Spaces filled with caution and respect, and sometimes raging battles where they weren't even in the same fight. Humor was their bridge. They would always baffle one another at times, but each remained fiercely protective of the other. And they never lost the ability to make each other laugh.

END


	3. Brian the Landlord

"Over my dead body," was Chris's reaction.

"Too late, I've already told him," Brian said promptly.

"Well, you can go un-tell him," Chris was aggrieved.

Brian's chin tilted up a fraction. "This is _my _apartment we're talking about, remember?"

"Yes. Your New York apartment, where you used to live with Ethan. Which you're now renting out--to _Ethan_!" Chris's voice rose in incredulity. "You do remember he dumped you when you were depressed, right? And that he is a complete asshole?"

"Yes, I remember," Brian said patiently. "I also need a tenant, and he needs somewhere to live. It saves me advertising or using an agency--it just makes business sense, right?"

Chris glowered. "I hope you're making him pay through the nose."

"I'm charging a fair rent which I know he can afford." Brian didn't quite meet Chris's eye.

***

Brian tapped on the door. A minute later, Ethan opened it. "Brian! Come in, what brings you to New York?"

"Chris and I are up for the weekend to see a play at Lincoln Center. I dropped by because, uh, you haven't paid last month's rent." Brian followed Ethan in and stood awkwardly in the living room. It had been his own living room, and most of the old furniture was still there, but it all seemed slightly alien now. "You were going to set up a regular bank transfer--"

"I haven't got round to that. It's such a bore." Ethan raised a dismissive hand. "Look, sit down, have a soda."

"Uh..." Brian sat down. Ethan was already bouncing out to the kitchen, and returned a minute later with a can of soda. Brian opened it, Ethan remained standing, and somehow Brian had become the supplicant while Ethan towered over him with authority.

"The rent," Brian said, a trifle desperately. "Is there a problem?"

"I can't really afford it, Brian." Ethan's eyes were big and round and earnest.

Brian knew exactly what Ethan's salary was. "You must be joking! What are you spending your money on?"

"Just... food, clothes, music, that kind of stuff. I'm not used to affording rent," Ethan spread out his hands. "You never charged me a nickel when we lived here together! I got used to spending what I earn. Now I just can't seem to save enough to pay rent too."

Brian breathed deeply. "Are you saying your crappy money management is _my_ fault?"

"Well, I think you didn't help."

Brian passed a hand over his eyes. He was _not _going to fall for this. "You're going to have to learn! Work out your budget, include rent along with your other bills, and whatever is left you can spend on yourself."

"Aw, Brian, how tedious. It's not like you need the cash, not really." Ethan perched on the coffee table, grinned a little, and tossed his shoulder-length blond mane. "Tell you what. How about I give you a blowjob instead, and we'll call it even for the month."

"You've got to be--" Brian rose to his feet in alarm as Ethan inched towards him. Fucking hell! "Look, Ethan--" Brian moved towards the door hastily. "Just sort yourself out, alright?"

***

The following day, Ethan was lounging in front of the TV when he heard a key in the lock of the front door. He froze for a few seconds, then sprang to his feet as a tall, fair man in jeans and a leather jacket strolled into the living room.

Goddamn, it was Brian's new squeeze, the rough and tumble bartender who wasn't just a bartender after all. What was his name--Chris?

"I'm the debt collector." Chris stood in the middle of the floor, arms folded. "You owe a month's rent."

Ethan sneered a little. "You're playing at being sheriff now? You do get around. What if I don't want to pay?"

"Then I toss you out of this apartment, change the locks, and sell your stuff."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Wanna bet?" Chris had a gleam in his eye. "And don't think you can distract me with an offer of a blowjob, either."

"Can't I?" Ethan arched an eyebrow. "Not curious? I taught Brian everything he knows, you know."

He was pleased to see a flash of jealous anger in Chris's gray eyes. Ethan only cared about Brian in a nostalgic kind of way (five years of history, plenty of good times, the guy was hot...) but had no qualms about playing up to any possible paranoia.

"Brian wouldn't let you throw me out," Ethan declared imperiously. "He still has...feelings for me, you know."

"_Bullshit._ He's just too nice to tell you to your face that you're taking advantage of his good nature. Whereas I am willing to do that, and able to throw you out." Chris took a menacing step towards Ethan.

"I can't afford it!" Ethan protested.

"The fuck you can't. I know what Brian's charging you, and it's half what you'd expect to pay for an apartment like this." Chris waved an arm. "You don't want to pay, you go find somewhere cheaper."

Raw economics prevailed. Ethan very much liked living in this large Manhattan loft, and had no wish to live in a small, dingy apartment in an unfashionable area of the city, for which he would probably pay a similar price anyway. He stood grumbling under his breath for a moment, then moved to pick up a jacket from a chair. He pulled a wallet from an inside pocket, produced a small sheaf of bills, counted some off, then proffered them to Chris.

Chris took them with one hand, and plucked a further bill off the sheaf with the other.

"Hey!" Ethan was indignant. "What the fuck?"

"Interest." Chris pocketed all the money. "I'm a businessman. You're three weeks late for last month. And you'd better pay on time this month, or I'll be back."

"You're a hard taskmaster." Ethan let admiration slip into his voice; he was reminded of Brian the Shark. "It's kind of a turn-on. You're sure you don't want a blowjob?"

Chris laughed with incredulity. "You are _un_-fucking-_believable_."

And he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

Ethan tucked his wallet back into his jacket and went to fix himself a sandwich, whistling happily to himself.

END


	4. Aliens have landed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian has a philosophical question for Chris.

"So, aliens have landed," Brian said one night, and Chris looked at him inquisitively. "They've announced that the world's gonna end in a year's time, but you can spend that year doing whatever you like, with any one person you choose. Alive or dead. Who would it be?"

Chris didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. Brian watched Chris for a moment then answered for him. "Edward, of course."

Chris was annoyed. "This is stupid."

Brian huffed a little laugh and said, "But no denial." He didn't look angry or hurt, just calm.

"Fine," Chris said indignantly. "What would you do?"

Brian sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. "It's a hot day, score is three and two, our favor, and the batter hits into left field. I'm straddling the plate as the idiot leaves second base, rounds third, and I see the ball coming. He's halfway home when I catch it. He comes stomping up for revenge, but it's over. I did it. Won the game."

Chris shook his head a little, amused. "I'll be at that game, and I'll bring Edward. You'll meet him."

"He should probably bring a lot of beer," Brian suggested.

***

Chris came home from his bar stint the following evening to find Brian in the kitchen stirring a large pot on the stove and sniffing the contents.

Without any greeting, Chris said abruptly, "That question with the aliens, and the year? I've changed my answer. Actually, I never gave an answer, you did. Anyway..."

Brian looked at him with raised eyebrows, spoon in mouth.

"I wouldn't choose," Chris announced. "I'd rather be alone for the year then have to choose."

"That's not in the rules," Brian protested.

"My life, my rules." Chris was firm. He joined Brian at the stove, taking the spoon and dipping it in the stew to taste.

Brian stared at Chris for a moment, processing, then grinned. "OK."

Chris was just about to suggest they leave the stew to simmer for a while, when Brian patted Chris's shoulder and added with a sly grin, "Then just for you, I'd keep Edward busy that year."

"Thanks for nothing, asshole!" Chris was indignant, and flicked a spoonful of stew in Brian's direction. It landed squarely on Brian's white T-shirt with a _splat_.

Brian retaliated with a light shove, and in the ensuing struggle Brian lost the T-shirt and Chris lost his belt before they made it to the bedroom. Chris used his superior strength to top, but Brian jutted his hips at a crucial second and got Chris to come before he wanted to. Annoyed and gasping with premature fatigue, Chris lay on his back and petulantly refused to bring Brian off, until Brian hauled himself up the bed and stuck his cock in Chris's mouth.

Who was jealous of whom, and for what, was altogether too confusing for either to fathom. But it was surprisingly cathartic, and they fell asleep afterwards in each other's arms.

END


	5. A Dog's Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris tries to stop Brian laughing at a couple of dog obsessed bar customers.

It was a quiet afternoon in the club; Chris was tidying bottles while Brian sat further down the bar reading a newspaper and occasionally watching Chris when he thought, erroneously, that Chris wouldn't notice.

Two men came in, sat two stools down from Brian, and ordered drinks. They were regulars, and Chris served them swiftly.

As he put beers down in front of them, he paused and asked, "Dean, is that a dog in your jacket?"

"No, I'm just pleased to see you," the guy said with a wink.

The other man, Gavin, said proudly, "It's a puppy. We just spent eight hours on the road picking her up."

Chris saw Brian lean forward to peer at the small brown nose sticking out of Dean's jacket.

"Make sure she stays in your jacket. I'm not insured for pets." Chris was droll. "What breed?"

"She's a shar-poo. Poodle cross shar pei." Gavin reached inside his partner's jacket to pet the nose. "One thousand dollars of pure joy."

Chris refused to look at Brian, who was staring at the nose with a look of fascination. Then Brian put his beer down, got up and walked away to the bathroom. Chris glanced around the bar, locked the cash register and went to find Brian.

***

Brian was leaning against the wall, shaking a little with silent laughter. Chris locked eyes with him and glared. "Behave! They've been coming here for years, they're valued customers."

Brian grinned, then burst out, "They drove two hundred miles to pay a grand for a _mutt?_"

"Each to their own. And don't call it a mutt in front of Dean and Gavin. They love dogs, especially these mixed poodle breeds. They've got a whole family of different ones at home."

"Don't tell me, they dress them up in those little jackets that say _I have two daddies._"

This was actually close to the truth; Chris let out an involuntary snort.

"And this thing is called a _shar-poo?_" Brian carried on. "You shouldn't allow it in the club, it might shar-poo on the floor."

Against his will, Chris started to laugh.

"Reminds me of an old joke." Brian looked at the ceiling. "What do you get if you cross a rooster with a cocker spaniel and a poodle? A cocker-poodle-doo."

"Brian, enough! Pull yourself together and don't insult the paying customers."

"Alright, alright." Brian ironed his face into innocence and held his hands up in surrender. Chris watched him for a few seconds, then stepped backwards and away.

"Hey, I'm gonna leave early this evening," Brian called after him. "I have to go home and shar-poo my hair."

Chris was still grinning as he returned to the bar. Dean and Gavin cast him surreptitious, raised-eyebrow glances, and watched as Brian then exited the bathroom with a serene face (drawing on his years of being a disciplined focused attorney, Chris could tell), and quickly walked out the door of the club.

Dean said cheekily, "Fast _and_ funny, your new guy, is he?"

"Bathroom sex is hilarious, so I've heard," Gavin deadpanned.

Chris grinned and didn't correct their assumption.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brian had seen the dog apparel in the window of this pet store in the Castro, San Francisco; [Best In Show](http://www.bestinshowsf.com/apparel1.html).  
> 


End file.
